little of nature, and not much of life. He formed a peculiar idea of comick excellence, which he supposed to confist in gay remarks and unexpected anfwers; but that which he endeavoured, he feldom failed of performing. His scenes. exhibit not much of humour, imagery, or paffion his perfonages are a kind of intellectual gladiators; every fentence is to ward or strike; the contest of smartnefs is never intermitted; his wit is a meteor playing to and fro with alternate corufcations. His comedies have therefore, in fome degree, the operation of tragedies; they furprise rather than divert, and raise admiration oftener than merriment. But they are the works of 2 a mind a mind replete with images, and quick in combination. Of his miscellaneous poetry, which this collection has admitted, I cannot fay any thing very favourable. The powers of Congreve feem to defert him when he leaves the stage, as Antæus was no longer strong than he could touch the ground. It cannot be obferved without wonder, that a mind fo vigorous and fertile in dramatick compofitions fhould on any other occafion difcover nothing but impotence and poverty. He has in these little pieces neither elevation of fancy, felection of language, nor fkill in verfification yet if I were required to select from the whole mafs of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what what I could prefer to an exclamation in The Mourning Bride: ALMERIA. It was a fancy'd noise; for all is hush'd. LEONORA. It bore the accent of a human voice. ALMERIA. It was thy fear, or elfe fome tranfient wind Whistling thro' hollows of this vaulted ifle : No, all is hufh'd, and ftill as death.-'Tis dreadful! How reverend is the face of this tall pile; Whofe ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof, By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity! It ftrikes an awe And And terror on my aching fight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And fhoot a chilnefs to my trembling heart. He who reads thofe lines enjoys for of a poet; a moment the powers of a he feels what he remembers to have felt before, but he feels it with great increase of fenfibility; he recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty, and enlarged with majesty. Yet could the author, who appears here to have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament the death of queen Mary in lines like thefe: The The rocks are cleft, and new-defcending rills Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills. The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn, And each, with ftreaming eyes, fupplies his wanting urn. The Fawns forfake the woods, the Nymphs the grove, And round the plain in fad distractions rove; And tug their fhaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground. Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak, See |